


An Unconventional Proposal

by tarinumenesse



Series: Considering that it's you [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Marriage Proposal, Post-Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Sylvgrid Week (Fire Emblem), Sylvgrid Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: A morning stroll takes a life-threatening turn, causing both Ingrid and Sylvain to question what is most precious.Sylvgrid Week 2020 Day 3: Scars (with references to Sacrifice)
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Considering that it's you [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771669
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	An Unconventional Proposal

The forest was finally quiet. The rough shouts of the bandits, the thump of their footsteps and the hiss of their weapons, were gone. Ingrid closed her eyes and rested her head against the bluff where she had sought refuge. An ambush during a simple morning stroll. It was comic that she, a veteran of the war, might spend her final hours hiding from a gang of petty thieves.

Grimacing, Ingrid pressed harder against the gash near her stomach. She willed her body to heal. But it was pointless: she didn’t possess a scrap of magic, and the wound was just deep enough, just bad enough, that she could not hope to stem the flow of blood.

How long had she been there? Ingrid tried to find the sun to decipher the time, but all she could see were the tree tops, their masses of leaves glowing different shades of green and gold as daylight filtered through them. It was pretty. Why hadn’t she taken more time to admire pretty things?

Ingrid shook her head, trying to clear it. It was a long walk back to the monastery, but she had to do it. It was her only hope.

There was a tree root above her head, exposed by corrosion on the face of the bluff. Ingrid grabbed it and pulled herself up, keeping her other hand against the wound. She held herself there a moment, finding the strength in her legs. Then took one step. Two.

Ingrid’s legs folded beneath her. She slumped to the ground and laughed. Was this really going to be her death? It couldn’t be. There were still things she had to do.

Unable to summon the will to move again, Ingrid fell back against the undergrowth. She stared up and counted the leaves. It was oddly calming, comforting. This wasn’t so bad.

“Ingrid!”

She opened her eyes.

“Goddess, no, Ingrid…come on, stay with me!”

Warm hands enveloped her face, gently turning it towards the sky. Ingrid smiled as golden-brown eyes—honey, they were the colour of honey, she thought with satisfaction—met hers.

Sylvain. This was one of those things. She could mark this off her list, at least.

“Sylvain,” she said. His name felt liquid on her tongue, impossible to grasp. “Love you.”

“No, Ingrid, we’re…no, stay with me! Felix!”

Ingrid could smell antiseptic. But that wasn’t right. She was sleeping in the forest. She should be able to smell the plants, the breeze.

Determined to find the cause for the horrible scent, she opened her eyes. Above her was the white ceiling familiar to many hospitals in Fódlan, including the one at the monastery.

“Ingrid?”

She turned her head. First she saw her hand, resting at the edge of the bed where she lay. It was engulfed in two larger ones, which belonged to Sylvain. He was sitting on a stool beside the bed. But he looked unwell. There were grey—no, purple—marks under his eyes, and his skin was a sickly yellow. He looked gaunt, as though he had dropped weight overnight.

Ingrid sat up.

“Sylvain, what’s wrong?” she demanded.

When she spoke, Sylvain laughed, a deep sound of relief, and leaned to kiss her hand before resting his forehead against it. He did not rise again, nor let go.

Worried, Ingrid lifted her other hand and slipped her fingers under his chin. As she tilted his face upwards, their eyes met, and she felt as though her heart had been ripped from her chest. Sylvain was crying.

Ingrid cupped his face, using her thumb to wipe away a tear.

“What happened?” she whispered.

Sylvain tried to say something, but only a strangled gargle emerged. He rubbed her hand between his as he cleared his throat, tried again.

“You don’t remember?” he said. “The forest. It wasn’t safe.”

Ingrid remembered at once. She dropped her hand to the place she was wounded, expecting to find bandages. There were none. Neither was there any pain.

Confused, Ingrid lifted up the unfamiliar linen shirt she was wearing (her own clothes were probably ruined, burned). The only thing she found was a new scar. It was wide and raised, jagged at the edges, a blotchy pink colour. Ingrid pressed on it. Hard to the touch, like there was a pebble under her skin. A scar like this took weeks, months to develop.

“How long have I been out?” she asked, prodding it again.

Sylvain grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ingrid go of the shirt as she looked up at him.

“Why are you apologising?” she asked.

Sylvain swallowed.

“I panicked. I thought…goddess, it doesn’t even bear saying.” He turned his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath. “The point is, I panicked. I had to do something.”

“I don’t understand,” Ingrid said.

“Neither do I,” came Mercedes’s voice.

Sylvain shrunk into the corner, watching Mercedes’s approach with fear. But Mercedes didn’t spare him a glance. She stopped beside the bed and studied Ingrid’s face as though he was not even there.

“Any headaches, body aches, fevers, nausea?” Mercedes asked.

Ingrid considered. Shockingly, she felt fine. Fantastic.

She shook her head.

“Good.” Mercedes turned to Sylvain. “So now you can go to bed!”

Everyone in the ward turned to gawk at the remarkable sound of Mercedes’s raised voice. Ingrid was similarly flabbergasted. But when she saw Sylvain wilt under Mercedes’s glare, her instinct overcame her desire to let the scene play out. She jumped off the bed and inserted herself between them, facing Mercedes.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” she said.

Mercedes planted her hands on her hips.

“He is sick,” she said. “He poured every skerrick of magic he possesses into healing you.”

The very idea made Ingrid smile in amusement.

“Sylvain’s magic isn’t strong enough to do that,” she said.

“We can discuss his magical ability later,” Mercedes replied drily. “What matters right now is that he did it without proper training and dried himself up completely. Then he sat at your bedside instead of following his healer’s advice. Sylvain is showing signs of magical shock and needs to rest. Now.”

That caught Ingrid’s attention. Annette had gone into magical shock once, after draining herself at Ailell. Within an hour of turning towards home after the battle, she had grown agitated, then developed fever-like symptoms before finally fainting into Felix’s arms. Mercedes’s immediate panic was only explained later, when Annette was fully recovered: it was possible for mages, even powerful ones, to die after a severe drain.

And Sylvain was not powerful.

Ingrid spun to him.

“Get into bed,” she ordered. “Now.”

Sylvain meekly stood up. His legs visibly trembled with the effort, and he all but fell onto the bed Ingrid had vacated. Mercedes shook her head and took his arm to help him back up.

“Not here,” she said. “We bring everyone through this ward. You’ll never sleep.”

“Ingrid did,” Sylvain said.

“You put her in a magically induced coma, for goddess’s sake. Come on.”

Mercedes led Sylvain and Ingrid to a quieter ward where each bed was surrounded by partitions, giving its occupant some privacy. Sylvain was quickly deposited in the one nearest the window, Mercedes going so far as to tuck the blankets under the mattress. The fact that he submitted to her ministrations without a single complaint revealed just how worn out he was. Ingrid hovered, feeling useless.

“Can I stay?” she asked as Mercedes finished her work.

“As long as he sleeps.”

That wouldn’t be an issue; Ingrid could see that Sylvain was already nodding off. She was glad of it. She hated the thought of him sitting by her side instead of resting.

“How long was I out?” she asked.

The corner of Mercedes’s mouth lifted. She shrugged her shawl from around her shoulders and wrapped it around Ingrid.

“Two hours.”

Ingrid grabbed Mercedes’s wrist before she could withdraw.

“That’s impossible,” she said. “The scar…”

“I told you,” Mercedes said, removing Ingrid’s hand from her wrist and patting it. “He healed you completely.”

Ingrid was watching Sylvain by the light of a single candle when he stirred. She immediately fished his hand out from under the blankets, taking it in both of hers and raising it to her lips. Sylvain smiled, eyes still closed.

“What time is it?” he asked. His voice was gruff with sleep.

“I don’t know,” Ingrid said softly. She didn’t want to wake the other patients. “Late. It’s dark outside.”

Sylvain opened his eyes and adjusted his head on the pillow so he could look at her. Ingrid was relieved to see that some of the signs of weariness in his face had eased.

“So tired,” he said, still smiling.

“Me too.”

Sylvain raised his eyebrows, then tugged the blankets loose and shuffled across the mattress. Ingrid moved from the chair into the space he had provided. She had spent some time considering the bed’s size, and was glad to discover, yes, it was big enough for both of them. She wrapped her arms around Sylvain and let her hand stray across his back. After the horror of the day, it was reassuring just to hold him.

Sylvain sighed contentedly as he tucked her head under his chin, his arms around her in kind.

“The near-death situations were supposed to end with the war, Ingrid,” he said.

“I didn’t intend to be ambushed,” she replied.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Well, don’t you ever do this again.”

“Can’t promise that if you won’t promise me.”

Ingrid tilted her head back so she could see Sylvain’s eyes.

“You do know mages have died from magical shock,” she said.

“I’d sacrifice everything for you,” he responded, twisting her hair around his finger.

His casual, unthinking tone made Ingrid angry.

“I don’t want you to do that,” she snapped.

Sylvain frowned and untangled his hand from her hair. Ingrid had upset him. She forced herself to calm down before speaking again.

“Can’t we just take care of each other without death coming into it?” she suggested.

Sylvain’s frown only deepened, worry lines appearing on his forehead. Ingrid reached up and smoothed them. At her touch, he closed his eyes.

“What is it?” Ingrid asked. She wanted to understand.

Sylvain shifted, tightening his arm around her.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Please,” Ingrid said, lacing her fingers between his. “Try.”

Sylvain drew back. Ingrid let him go, until all that was touching were their intertwined hands.

“I…I’m sorry,” he said at length. “About the scar. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ingrid said. “It’s just one of many.”

“It’s not,” he replied in a rough voice. “Mercedes could have healed the wound cleanly.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“We both know she could have.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid said.

“It matters to me. I should have been there, in the first place. To protect you.”

Ingrid moved towards him, unable to let him be apart from her any longer.

“Sylvain, no,” she murmured.

“The war’s over,” he said, ignoring her. “There’s no reason for you to be in danger. No reason for you to fight.”

“No one, not even you, has to protect me,” Ingrid argued. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. I know. But I want to do right by you.”

“You do.”

“No, I mean it. This whole war…my whole life, really…I’ve run away from myself. From what I am. I blamed my Crest for everything. But you know, lately I’ve realised that I also used it as an excuse. If Crests are the reason the world’s so messed up, why should I take responsibility for the things I do wrong?”

Sylvain laid his empty hand over her new scar.

“Like failing you.”

Ingrid thought her heart would burst. She loved this man, all his silliness and stupidity, the intellect he carefully hid from the world, his care and compassion and craziness. Watching him blame himself for the actions of a group of thugs was pure agony.

“You didn’t fail me,” she said. “You saved me.”

Sylvain averted his eyes again. Her words weren’t sinking in. How could she make him understand?

“Sylvain.”

He glanced up. Eyes the colour of honey, Ingrid recalled.

“This is hurting me,” she said. “When you put yourself in danger and reproach yourself for things you can’t control, that hurts me.”

Sylvain was still. For a long moment, all Ingrid could hear was the whisper of them both breathing. A spiral of nerves unfurled in her stomach at the intimacy of it.

“Before you passed out,” Sylvain said finally, breaking the spell, “you said you loved me.”

Ingrid was glad for the dim light, which would hide her flush.

“I do,” she said.

Sylvain took a shallow breath, then lifted his hand to her face. He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

“Marry me,” he said.

Ingrid’s heart skipped. She didn’t know how best to describe the feeling that overcame her. It was as though she weighed less than a feather. Or it was the rush when her pegasus dived towards the ground—the thrill of danger while knowing she was perfectly safe. That she would rise back up into the sky instead of striking the earth.

“Marry me,” Sylvain repeated. “I’ll spend my whole life making this up to you. Making it all up to you. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Ingrid rested her hand over the top of his.

“If I can stay by your side, that’s all I truly need in this world,” she said.

As she watched the grin grow across Sylvain’s face, she knew she had never spoken words more true.

“You mean it?” Sylvain asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

Ingrid laid back and smiled.

“Marry me, Sylvain.”

He threw himself at her. She was simultaneously crushed beneath him and in his arms.

“I love you, Ingrid,” he said. “Goddess, I love you. I love you.”

“Be quiet,” Ingrid hissed, trying to push him away. “You’ll wake the other patients.”

Sylvain lifted himself off her. He smiled, a secret smile that Ingrid somehow knew was just for her. And he stayed there, still and silent and staring at her, for the longest time.

“I can’t think what else to say,” he admitted eventually.

Ingrid nudged him to the side. He settled back down on the mattress facing her, but this time with both her hands in his, their noses nearly touching.

“What you were saying does just fine,” Ingrid said.

Sylvain kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> I was struggling a bit with this prompt (strange, since I usually go mad for themes like this), so I decided to discovery write the whole fic...and I think it shows even after editing. But I liked the surprise direction my head took me, so here it is and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> I took a few liberties with canon magic, but why not. Just a few extra rules.


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